Waving Not Drowning

There's no joy here. That's what she thinks when she looks into his pale blue crystalline eyes. A coolness settles around him. Tentative, guarded, quiet. Or mastered. Half a dozen of one... It didn't take her long to realize he was something other than what she was used to. L'autre, as they say. No wham bam thank you m'am How YOU doin' Jesus woman, you make me weak in the knees sorta bloke. Even his eyewear is sedate. There's a half smile occasionally withdrawing into a smirk. Unknowingly. A learned reflex, a laugh out loud withdrawn too soon. At this stage of the game, it's bred in the bone. Restraint. Observational engagement. Small ripples run deep. There's an undertow drawing her in but she can't tell if it's her own volition or an actual tidal pull. Full moon fever. He ebbs and flows. She wants to ride big waves. There's a quality of grace and wonder, a generosity of spirit that spills forth from  her every cel.

"I think that went well, don't you? Not too painful, I hope." Nothing's quite as inspiring as this man standing before her, flop sweating, blissfully unaware of his awkward courting. He means well, she knows this; but "not too painful" still involves a whole lotta work on her part. Oh, that's mean, she thinks. Bad, bad Julia. Be nice, play well with others. She glances at her phone and knows if she can extricate herself now there's still time to hustle home and pour herself a tumbler of Red Breast before she has to call it a night. Finally satiate her palate. It's clear to her. She likes her own company the best. She did discover a hip new local, though, populated with an unexpectedly queer positive crowd kitted out in matching plaid button-downs and ironically sloganed t shirts: I'm OK, You're OK. Their server was a close talker, gregarious, maybe high, maybe happy, with a pop culture awareness that disappeared at 1987. The

She hits the down button. Two hospital admin types, young women in almost stylish outfits, the ones afforded on entry level salaries, wait on a car going up. The elevator arrives, doors open, she steps on then realizes she's going up. Force of habit, she says aloud to no one in particular, pavlovian response. The two women sort of smile as they study the floor, suddenly intensely awkward and private. She gets louder as she backs out of the car. Doors close and she hovers her finger over the already illuminated down button. Right, just did that. It's quiet here, far from the madding crowd. Emerg was busy, mainly the geriatric crew. A few indigent and drunk and disorderlies draped over chairs, hanging out of gurneys, buried under sheets and gowns, moaning, rambling incoherently. It's the large-and-in-charge paramedic night: 4 teams of doughy young men stand sentinel with their wards, buried in paperwork, bored with the hurry and up wait logjam of daily deliveries.

Three glasses in a week. One on the floor, smashed to bits on the cracked grey tiles. Chunks of grout rolling like pebbles, lodging between her toes. The second in the sink, a slip of her hand and down it goes, shards sinking in a sea of sudsy water. The third glass, her favourite tumbler, the one with the faded Police Technology logo, all the way from from her alma mater three provinces over, 20 years ago. Caught the edge of the counter and just like that... It mysteriously appeared one day in the cupboard above the fridge, hidden behind a set of twelve black and pink flower china coffee mugs. Garish eighties decor unearthed. A heavy beer stein, good for half a pint of cheap draft- Laurentide or Labbatt 50, maybe Maudite if they were feeling flush. Probably picked up at a Goodwill or Value Village by one of the myriad exchange students who frequented the house before she set down roots 4 years ago. Digging up bones. She sits at the kitchen table, crumbs from this morning'

Sometimes she lies. Just a bit. Smoothes over the rough spots without breaking his heart. Or betraying hers. The sin of omission. It's second nature now. A slight smile, an imperceptible nod followed with a hmm or an uh huh. He doesn't notice most of the time. Or so it seems. The level of disconnect is tacitly agreed upon in the silent storm that brews between them, slowly picking up steam, until the gale force of indifference blows them apart. He listens halfway. She stews passive aggressively. Mind like a steel trap, remembering every single word, thoughtless aside. Half-hearted kiss. There is hair growing out of his ears. His eyebrows are unruly. This repulses her. His skin is losing it's tenacity around his already weak chin. All she can see is his disappearing profile. It used to be his smile and ever so slight gap toothed grin would leave her a wet mess on the floor. The imperfections turned her on to  no end. He was rough around the edges, soft in the  

Sharon stumbles over her uniform balled up on the floor, a tangled knot of grey and blue polyester, slick with oil and smelling like poverty. Too tired to hang it up or toss it over the kitchen chair she peeled it off, layer by layer. A trail of desperation and struggle. She crawls into bed defeated, exhausted. This schedule will be the death of her. Three hours of sleep and no end in sight. Not now, anyway. Somewhere down the line, he told her. Put your dues in and you'll see. Trust me. Sharon's got no time for trust. She's too tired to play the long con. Twenty one or slots. No dealer's choice for her. Everyone's got a finite amount of time, you just don't know the count. The only thing she can count on is no sure thing. Twenty three years, she's no further ahead then when she began. A hand out, a leg up, a free ride. If she'd only said yes. Just once. The right guy at the right time, the right place, the right job. Opportunity kn

"Pick a card, any card." Kevin flared a deck in front of her with incredible ease and grace, so studied that it appeared the fan of laminated cards was a natural extension of his hand. "Not now, Kev, ok? I'm not in the mood." Kevin stood motionless for three seconds then with an exaggerated ruffle he collapsed the accordion of cards into a perfectly stacked deck, his gestures so fluid as to be unnoticeable. Sleight of hand. It was awkward between them. Tight, rough. Never date a magician, this is permanently etched into her brain now. She used to love it, the mystery, the tricks so remarkable she squealed with shock and delight. A total turn on. Talent gets her every time. Now it's one big irritation. A constant itch he needs scratched. Look at me, look at me. Did you see that, can you believe your eyes He's worse than that actor. Almost as bad as that stand up comic she slept with, the one who screamed like a girl. If Tracy wanted needy she&

Pick it up. Put it on the table, back where it belongs. Get the cloth, wipe the floor, wring it out, hang it up and start again. It's just a glass. No big deal. Millions of grains of sand fired into liquid molten lava, compressed, blown, turned, shaped. Cooled, polished, delivered. Destroyed. It's just a glass. A flimsy, delicate vessel entirely unsuited to the task at hand. You need the bottle. Amber hued or olive green. Half an inch thick. Weighty as you wield it in your hand like a weapon. Tilt the head back, grasping the neck as if to strangle the liquid out of it. Pouring, elbow raised, eyes closed, mouth open. This is no time for decorum. Decency has left the building. Drink, drink, drink To the last drop then let it roll Off the fingers, an extension of bone and skin Cool comfort.

There it was. Lying in the corner of the silver dish on the side table next to the couch. Right next to the ridiculously expensive dog comb she convinced Todd to buy that neither of them ever use. No wonder she couldn't find it. Why search the place they sit next to every day for hours on end as they stare straight ahead like zombies hypnotized by the 40 inch flatscreen. They don't even share the couch like they used to. Claire curls up in the lazy boy nestled under the green and red cottage throw which always smells faintly of woodsmoke and Off while Todd splays his limbs out like an Irish wolfhound in repose, engulfing the seven foot long sectional and ottoman. They bought that piece on layaway with her bridal shower money and took four years to pay it off because every time they went by the store to put money down they walked out with some other random appliance or side table or hand dyed silk and wool mix Persian rug they couldn't afford, didn't need but fel

Oh come on, really? You can't be serious- I mean, I heard her. She said it was 5, not 6. Why do you think she said 6? Cause that's stupid, it's completely idiotic and if it's true then we're completely screwed, ok? Like totally shit outta luck. So why don't you call her or text her or bloody well send up the bat signal and see if you can get her to confirm your story because I am not going to take the heat on this one if we miss the plane. Can you do that? Can you make that happen or do I have to do it for you, like every other single thing in your life. Really. You are unbelievable. A fully grown man and you can't get your shit in order- why are we even having this conversation? Just do it, do something, do anything. DO IT! Grant studies the phone in his hand, too tired to respond. Every year it's the same thing. Home for the horror-days. He stayed away last year, took extra shifts at the bar and made hand over fist in pity tips from the barflys who h

He can see himself laid out on the table below him. Everyone looks so serious. Lights and blips and buzzers. So much machinery. Faces covered with masks, blue hands tinted with chocolate syrup. Wait, no. That's blood. Hands dip in and out of the center of his chest, pulling out layer upon layer of gauze soaked through. So much blood. He's leaking his life force from a wide open mine in the center of his chest, spilling an endless tangle of tubes and cords, leaving trails of slick red lines smeard across his flayed torso. A watercolour explosion of streaks fading out as they drip to the floor. He feels no pain, which is strange. He's dreamt this moment over and over. This out of body, into the light experience. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He never envisioned the chaos, the disorder, the frantic recklessness diguised as absolute authority. It's uncouth. Graceless. So messy. All of these gowned bodies working with controlled urgency, a regimente

Rise and shine! Bailey's tail thumps against the nightstand, a jackhammer wake up. The glass of water vibrates, threatening to topple over onto Carson's pillow. Again. He never learns. Either move the glass or get a bottle with a locking lid. Or close the door at night so at 6 am the dog doesn't inadvertently wake him up with a cold shower. Hungover. Slow moving. His eyes start to focus then bam, it hits him. A flashbomb blinding his vision. It's a new year. No idea what time he called it a night- somewhere between three bottles of Veuve and free flowing shots of Patron chased with salted pistachios and fried plantain. Friends with strange predilections. The remainders- cracked lips, salt-stained fingers and greasy cheeks. Depleted. Bailey paces, whining under his breath, drool leaking from his bear head. Carson swings his legs over the bed, heels hard on the cold floor, head in hands spinning, throbbing. Bailey's mastiff tongue shellacs his face, grooming his b